Brightly
by Revanche
Summary: Of Tony and nameless girls.


Title: Brightly   
Author: Revanche   
Disclaimer: Navy NCIS is owned by CBS, or at least TPTB.  
Rating: R   
Spoilers: None.

Of Tony and nameless girls.

* * *

They say that everybody's got their own way of coping, right? Kate's probably involves time spent on her knees with a rosary in hand, and Gibbs has his damned boat, but when you've got nothing in particular to cling to, turns out you'll cling to whatever's there. And there's something in the air tonight's got everybody on edge, if that's not the most cliche way ever to describe this. Like if they don't do this one last thing right now, they're out. Like if they don't try hard enough, don't shimmer sparkle beneath the lights flashing end-of-the-  
world colors, they're gonna die here and now. Like this is it, this is what they've gotta do. It's got everybody on edge, trying so hard to impress everybody else, everybody around him, predatory boys and pretty girls hell-bent on adolescent destruction, with their glitter-rimmed eyes, sweat-damp hair, fingers hooked through the loops of his jeans. Everybody, and he's no exception.

Or maybe he's just getting old. Growing cynical with age.

But then he looks down and the way she's watching him, her blue eyes wide and dark with nothing more than lust, life, this barely-legal blonde, there's no way she's thinking of him as a father figure. She smiles, one hand sliding away from his jeans, up his arm, and he's got enough time to try to remember what her name was, if she ever introduced herself before nudging her girlfriend aside and swaying against him. Melissa, maybe, or Jennifer, she looks like a Jennifer, and then she's tracing a wet line from the collar of his shirt up his throat to the hollow just below his earlobe and it's very, very hard to remember anything at all. She giggles as he kisses her, waxy lipstick and something sugar-sweet, and as her hand's curving around his back, he knows that she's really not much more than a child. The sort of pretty girl he'd play with in college, the sort of girl he'd see with one of his brothers at the next party, and it didn't matter at all, because it was all a game.

It still is.

The volume drops suddenly, the jagged edge of music fading away, and in the Split-second before the sound comes crashing back, the girl's arms raised in frozen worship, silhouette, he's back in high school, cold vinyl digging into his back as Danielle-on-her-knees fumbles with buttons and there's a star in the sky right outside the window, burning white-cold, distant, millions-of-miles distant, and he can't look away, can't look away -

And then someone jostles against him, stumbles away before he has a chance to see a face, get a name. Unknown Blonde gasps as he twists her, her back hot through thin fabric, and he savors the sound, stores it away, knows that he can hear it a thousand times over, fast and slow and raw when she'll moan, muscles arching beneath him. She'll be easy, and she'll be good, and she's writhing against him electric, her hands caressing the inseam of his jeans, and he's too far gone to wonder if anybody's staring. Hell, if they are, it's not like anybody's complaining. They're enjoying the show and it's not like he minds providing entertainment; it's why he's here. For fun. Satisfaction guaranteed and he knew it before he left the apartment, every aspect of his appearance a careful calculation, designed for maximum effect.

After all, it's no fun if you don't try.

And so it's Friday night and he's already knows how the night's gonna end, and it occurs to him suddenly that as hot as Maybe-Melissa is, no matter what that square of glitter's concealing, she's not gonna last. He knows it; that's why he's here. None of them last. They're all in it for the game, just like he is.

He buries his face against her neck, teeth brushing at exposed veins as she tilts her head back. A game, outcome determined. Fun as hell, but where's the challenge? It's not that he wants marriage, a white dress and wedded bliss and arguing about china patterns and how late he's working. This is where he belongs, breathing spilled liquor, sweat, perfume, soft vulnerable skin pressing against him and music a baseline, the background, pounding in when all of the other sensations start to fade. This is where he belongs, where he's happy, where the edges of his vision have started to blur and he doesn't have to worry about anything other than what she's doing now, manicured nails pressing against his stomach, just above his waistband, doesn't have to worry or think or be anywhere but right here, right now. Where it's not really safe, but close enough.

She moves against him, her hips gliding with the music as it loops, repeats, bursts back to life, and she wraps her arms around her neck, pressing her lips to his ear. "Come home with me," she breathes, hot whispers prickling the hair on the back of his neck. "Come home."

And isn't this what he's wanted all along? He turns, suddenly, so that she's looking directly at him, startled, off-guard, glossy, but she's just one of the crowd. "Of course," he says, his words muffled by her skin, her mouth, her tongue, sharp white teeth and no wonder he's got a thing about vampires, this blood-heat between them as drumbeats throb and pulse. "Who'm I to say no to a pretty girl?" Her laugher rolls along his collarbone as she rolls against him, her fingers tangled within his, pressed to her sides. Dominant, he's got to be dominant as she nips at his mouth, as if to draw blood now, here, claim possession. She whimpers as he releases one hand, sliding it inside the near-  
nonexistence of her skirt, caressing silk and satin and slick heat before wrenching away, twisting as the music drives on, on, on.

"Now," she says, her voice hoarse and raw, and she turns, pulling him behind her as she pushes through the crowd, dancers too lost in their own worlds, their own desperation, to take more than momentary notice. She shoves the bathroom door open and thank God there's nobody inside because the way she's panting's driving him insane, the way her breath comes hot and fast over the faint rhythm of the music through concrete walls. She smiles at him, takes a step forward, and then he's got her back to the door, one hand trapping her palm over her head, the other shifting, catching on the rough glitter fabric of her shirt, the black lace of her bra, electrifying smoothness of her breasts. She's grasping for the button on his pants, fingers pricking, burning through denim, and it's the same, always the same as she rolls against him, cloth tearing, slipping out of the way, oh, God, he cannot be doing this here, fucking here in the bathroom of some trendy anonymous club, he can't, but he is and she buries her face in his torn shirt to muffle her words as he bites down, tastes something dark and hot, intimate and so incredibly dangerous, dizzy and fading, fading into the plateau of the relentless driving rhythm outside, her hips curving, her skin rich and wet and warm beneath his hands.

And then his surroundings come flooding back in, the angry pounding against the bathroom door, the flickering harsh fluorescents and the way she's smoothing her hair away from her face. Nameless Girl steps away from him, reaches for the faucet and switches the water on, a hush that drowns out the outside world. He looks at her for a minute as she dampens a paper towel and starts washing sweat from her face, fixing her smeared make-up, and she catches him looking at her, shrugs and straightens. He's already taken the hint, zipped his pants, his arms crossed as he leans against the wall, watching her, fingers sparkling beneath the clear water.

She turns off the faucet, brushes past him, smelling of perfume and beer and sex, and he almost opens his mouth to ask her name, but she opens the door and a brunette in heels shoves past her, slams her way into one of the stalls, and he can't find the words. Blonde Girl glances at him over her shoulder, raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you're already done," she says, and he grins, follows her out and loses her in the crowd to the mid-scream chick-angst remix pounding through the speakers.

A few hours later and he really is headed out, searching for the exit amid this haze of smoke and bodies, soft flesh and earthslide music, swirling lights and smeared lipstick smiles. He leans against the doorframe for a minute, stability like a distant dream and oblivion's what he wanted, after all, and he sees her just for a second, the pretty blond girl dancing with some other guy, hair cascading behind her. It must be a trick of the light, of memory, because she's Danielle and none of this is nearly as casual as it seems, and in a year he leaves for college and she moves in with his best friend, and this is adulthood, the way he turns, stumbles for the exit without saying anything at all. There's not gonna be a morning after this time, no lazy a.m. sex, golden skin and sunlight, hands and thighs and coffee before he goes home, and it's more than just a disappointment as he stands there and watches the past writhe against the future.

The girl next to him tugs impatiently at his hand, eyes lost and wild, and he smiles dazedly at her, his focus shifting as she leans into him, mussed hair and firecracker warmth, and her name, he thinks, is Suzanne or something like that. She smiles up at him and giggles drunkenly as he presses kisses into her hair, and she's quiet as he walks her back to her apartment, fingernails pressing into his palm, a focal point amid the smeared neon, the gritty sidewalk, the aching humid air, the faint music pounding, echoing, hovering in the still air.

She's there beside him, he knows, but in this slow wasted strangeness, the whole lonely way back, he can't shake the feeling that he's walking with nothing but stars, burning bright and cold.

xxxxx

End


End file.
